


The Sin of Onan

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Athelstan has tried to control his body's carnal needs, but his time among the heathens saps his will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sin of Onan

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the beginning of 1x05, and then the middle of 1x06. Follows [Purpose](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1605923).

The first time he did it, he vomited.

When Athelstan's childhood at the monastery blended into adolescence, some of the elder brothers explained to him that sometimes, the devil comes into a man's dreams, and turns his body away from God. Some of the brothers told him not to fret, saying that as a man could not control his dreams, what happened within them was no grave sin. Still others, however, went beyond that, choosing to let the devil take over even in their waking hours. Once upon a rainy evening, he had seen Brother Edric hiding in a corner of the goat stall, habit hitched up around his hips and touching himself in a most unholy way. Athelstan should have said something to Father Cuthbert about it, but he didn't. Not then, not ever. He had his own demons to wrestle with—in particular the one that looked like Brother Edric himself. Each time when he awoke with a damp, sticky spot on his bedclothes, he scrubbed and scrubbed, telling the devil to leave him, to leave his body and his thoughts, and keep him pure.

As he grew, he managed to keep the thoughts at bay somehow. He channeled his energy into his work, into his prayer, and into the Word, and the devil mostly left him. When Brother Edric departed for a year's missionary work in Francia, it was made considerably easier, and Athelstan knew that was God's work in helping him stay righteous.

But then the devil came back, raging onto the shores of his island home, tearing down everything that he had ever used to shore up his strength against the faults and sins he had tried to cleanse. He came in the form of a tall, muscled man with eyes like a mountain lake, and hands … Athelstan couldn't stop thinking about his hands.

He had snuck glances at the pair through the gaps in the woven wall of the small home to which they had brought their slave. He couldn’t help it; they were nearly upon him as they rutted and growled. He tried to force himself to keep looking at the Gospel, at the words he had risked his life to save, but the sounds and the smells he could not turn away from, and they kept dragging his eyes back. When they invited him to their bed, cold fire ran through his veins. How could he have such fear and hatred of these murderous heathens, and yet still be unable to stop thinking about them? God had intervened that night, giving him the strength to tell his captors that he could not—telling them he didn't want to would have been a lie—but the damage had already been done. No amount of prayer or fumbling attempts to maintain his tonsure could chase these devils from his mind, and eventually, they took over.

Only a few weeks after the pair's return from their raiding holiday, after Ragnar had been cleared at his trial, and before the earl had raided their village, it became too much. The children were sound asleep, and the moon's white light sparkled through the cracks in the roof. Ragnar laughed—a deep, throaty sound—and Lagertha followed. Then she made quieter noises: Small, high, like the bleating of a newborn goat. He turned from the Word and looked through the gap. She was splayed wantonly across the bed, her knees dropped to the sides, and her thighs trembling. And Ragnar … Ragnar's face was between them. She had a handful of his hair, the braid loose and messy, and her hips rose, meeting the rhythm of his head.

Athelstan was utterly fascinated. He had no idea what Ragnar could possibly be doing to her—a strange kiss of some sort, he supposed.  Whatever it was, she liked it—she _loved_ it—and so did Ragnar. A few minutes later, Ragnar changed position, sidling around and kneeling above her head as his own still bobbed at the valley of her body. Her sighs then muffled, and soon Athelstan saw why.

The ache in his body became too much. The pain of it threatened to rot him from the inside out. Blurting the smallest of pleas to God to forgive him, he stuffed a hand into his breeches and took himself in his grip, fumbling around and trying to find the ways that felt the best. Years of denial boiled over, and it seemed mere seconds before it was done—Ragnar hadn't even finished himself, yet. In the moment, it seemed all of heaven and its angels had taken up residence in his body, but in the stillness afterward, Athelstan's mind cracked. Reaching for the chamber pot beneath his pallet, he emptied his stomach, tears streaming down his face as he did.

It would be months before he had a chance to do it again.

The attack by the earl and the subsequent close quarters in Floki's cabin made it impossible to have any time alone. He had no privacy longer than what was needed to wash or to void his bladder or bowels. Not that it mattered to the others, of course. Floki and Helga—once with Torstein!—continued to do as they pleased, and once Ragnar began to heal, Lagertha attended to his pent-up needs. Athelstan's needs, however, went unsatisfied. As it was, he had lost some of the taste for the idea, becoming convinced that God had brought his wrath down upon Ragnar—upon one of the objects of Athelstan's sin—in punishment for it.

It wasn't until things had settled down again that the feelings came back. After Ragnar had become earl, after the grand funeral and the willing sacrifice of the slave girl, after the family had occupied the Great Hall and its living quarters, life became somewhat normal again, albeit a different kind of normal, and one he would never have imagined back in Lindisfarne. He had a better place to sleep, now: his own room, with a proper bed, and even a space under the floorboards where he could hide the cherished Gospel he had saved during the raid. Not that he had looked at it much these days. The Word was ever in his mind, but somehow his passion for it was fading. Even with the privacy and his changing heart, however, he couldn't yet bring himself to seek release. He had too good a life, now; he didn't want to risk angering God again.  

The family's newfound peace and prosperity and Lagertha's growing pregnancy had put everyone in a good mood. So good, in fact, that Ragnar's own libido had spiked, growing well beyond what Lagertha was able to handle with the delicate stomach and fatigue of her condition. To address the issue, he had taken to scurrying off to dark, little-used spaces in the early morning—speaking to the gods, he had told people.

Athelstan discovered Ragnar's true occupation one morning purely by accident, mistaking the rustling sounds for a goat that had gotten somewhere it didn't belong. He begged forgiveness for the intrusion, and made to leave, but before he got far, Ragnar called out to him, his voice low and teasing.

"Are Christians not allowed to do this, either?" He stroked once along the full length, seeming to wave the swollen organ at Athelstan.

He cast his eyes down, trying to erase the image from his memory. "We . . . no. All of it—any carnal pleasure—is a sin, save that which is intended for creating children." He bit his lip. "And priests—monks—cannot do even that, so we are allowed none at all."

Ragnar snorted derisively. "What a horrible religion you have, Athelstan, that would not allow a man even the pleasures of his own hand. You're missing out. It's very nice."

"I know, but—"

He sat up. "Wait. You _know_? How would you know if you've never done it? Unless …" His eyes scanned Athelstan's face. "Oh, the gods are joking, you _have_."

Athelstan felt himself flush down to the soles of his feet, and he dropped into a strained silence.

"Was it only once? Twice? Perhaps when you were a boy? Did your god punish you for it?" Ragnar giggled.

Athelstan's jaw tightened. "If I am free to go, I will leave you to yourself." He turned again.

"Please don't go, yet." Ragnar said, his voice gentler this time. "I'm sorry if I upset you. It really is an important thing to you, I can tell. I should not joke."

"There's no harm done." Athelstan said flatly. "It's just not something I wish to talk about."

"I understand. Go, then. But if you ever do decide you want to talk to me about it—or about anything—you can. I can imagine that perhaps your fellow priests told you nothing about even your own body, and I find that a pity. I'd like to help you learn."

Athelstan glanced back up for a split second. Ragnar's organ had softened somewhat, and now hung loosely between his thighs. Athelstan had seen it many times before, in states both turgid and relaxed—in close quarters, caring for a badly wounded man, it was impossible not to—but somehow it seemed almost vulgar at this place and moment. A wave of nausea washed through him. "I appreciate the offer," he finally said, and took his leave.

That night, in the solitude of his sleeping chamber, he finally indulged again. It was different this time, however. The shame was still there, but something about Ragnar's words had changed things. Or perhaps it was just the memory, which he had not been able to dislodge from his brain, of seeing Ragnar engaged in the same act. Shocking as it had been at the moment, it nonetheless seemed normal somehow; natural, as if perhaps God had intended such possibilities merely by giving men arms long enough to reach. It did seem strange, he considered, that man had been given such an unruly piece of anatomy if he was not allowed even to touch it himself for any purpose of pleasure. He knew God placed temptation in the path of men to challenge them—to test their faith and devotion—but a temptation that was actually part of one's own body seemed downright cruel, and not something done by a loving god. The seed of doubt thus planted in his mind, his body relaxed, and when the moment finally arrived, he felt the wash of pleasure more fully, more completely than he had before, and with no subsequent need to retch. Indeed, he felt almost peaceful, and after dabbing away the mess, he slept more soundly than he had in the entire time he had been among the heathens.

When he awoke the next morning he was fully refreshed, rising even before the rest of the family and doing his rounds with the animals. Not long after, Ragnar rose himself. Striding across the hall to his private corner, he crossed paths with Athelstan. He smiled as he passed, and cocked his head.

"Good morning." His voice was still thick with sleep, his eyes half-lidded.

"And to you." Athelstan nodded.

"I'll be in the linen room, should you . . . need me for anything." Ragnar winked and strode away.

For a moment, Athelstan seemed frozen in place. Sometimes, it was difficult to discern exactly what Ragnar was saying, under his love for teasing and sarcasm, but this time seemed undeniably clear. With a rush in his chest and a hitch of breath, he followed.


End file.
